Tale of a Hedonistic wizard

In the far reaches of the Empire, where the tendrils of imperial power grew weak and frayed, lay the town of Bormur. Discover hidden tales at empire

Once a bustling waypoint on the Old Silk Road, it now stood as a testament to decay and abandonment. The cobblestone streets were cracked and overgrown with stubborn weeds, while the wooden buildings leaned against each other like elderly drunkards, their paint long since weathered away by the harsh winds that swept down from the Grimspine Mountains.

At the heart of this forsaken place stood the Church of the Great God Dhastyes, its once-gleaming spires now dulled by neglect.

The God of Dawn and Renewal, whose golden symbols had once adorned every corner of the building, seemed to have abandoned this place along with its prosperity.

Tonight, however, the church played host to a gathering that would forever alter the fabric of reality in this forgotten corner of the world.

Inside the cavernous main hall, where the vaulted ceiling disappeared into shadows, a dozen figures moved with practiced precision. They wore robes of ash-grey wool, the colour of storm clouds and gravestones, their faces hidden beneath deep hoods. The air was thick with the acrid smoke of black candles and the metallic tang of fresh blood.

As they worked, their whispered incantations formed a discordant symphony that seemed to make the very stones of the church shudder in protest.

Hours before the meteor rained down,

A man stood ahead of everyone and supervised the final preparations with the intensity of a man obsessed.

"The sigil must be perfect," he hissed, his voice carrying the rasp of too many nights spent in study. "The slightest imperfection will doom us all."

On the floor of the church, drawn in blood that still glistened wetly in the candlelight, was an intricate symbol that seemed to hurt the eyes if observed too closely. It was composed of interlocking circles and angular runes, each line and curve imbued with terrible purpose. The blood used in its creation had come from thirteen different sources – twelve willing sacrifices from among their own ranks, and one unwilling victim whose screams had finally fallen silent just hours before.

As the last stroke was completed, the dozen of them took their positions around the sigil's perimeter. They knelt in perfect synchronization, their movements betraying years of rehearsal for this very moment.

The air grew heavy, as if the atmosphere itself were being compressed by an invisible force. The candles flickered, their flames stretching into elongated tongues that cast writhing shadows on the walls.

That man began the incantation, his voice resonating with otherworldly power:

*"By blood drawn and bonds sundered,

Through veils of flesh and time rent asunder,

We call to thee across the void,n/o/vel/b//in dot c//om

Where nightmares reign and gods are destroyed."*

The other members joined in, their voices weaving together in an eldritch harmony that seemed to vibrate in the bones of anyone who heard it.

As their chant reached a fever pitch, the air above the blood sigil began to shimmer and distort.

A sphere of deep crimson materialized, suspended in the air like a drop of blood frozen in time.

The sphere pulsed with an inner light, growing larger with each beat. The blood sigil beneath it began to glow with the same ruddy luminescence, the light seeming to seep upward into the expanding orb.

As it grew, it began to elongate and transform, taking on the appearance of a grotesque cocoon that writhed and twisted as if something within was struggling to break free.

The air in the room became almost unbreathable, thick with the stench of copper and decay.

A wind that had no natural source began to whirl around the hall, carrying with it sounds that had no place in the mortal world—the keening of lost souls, the laughter of beings that had never known joy, the scraping of claws against the walls of reality itself.

The members remained steadfast in their positions, though several trembled visibly as the cocoon's movements became more violent. The very fabric of space seemed to bend and warp around it as if reality itself was straining to contain whatever was about to emerge.

Abruptly the wind halted as if it froze in place; everything seemed to have frozen as the temperature suddenly dropped to minus. A chilling sensation crept up in the ones present. They looked up, clearly shaken by the eerie silence.

Crack!

A crack appeared on the cocoon, and with a sound of tearing flesh and breaking bones, the cocoon finally split open.

A viscous fluid that resembled blood but moved with unnatural purpose spilled out onto the floor, sizzling where it touched the stones. The muddle of mysterious liquid-like, bubbled on the floor, giving off an insidious energy.

And from this horrific birth canal emerged a figure—a man, but one whose very presence seemed to distort the air around him. The liquid had slowly turned into man, shaping his figure meticulously and as if with a purpose beyond human understanding.

He was tall and powerfully built, his naked form covered in the same blood-like substance that had filled the cocoon.

As he straightened to his full height, the fluid seemed to be absorbed into his skin, leaving it pale and unmarked. His features were those of a man in his prime, handsome in a severe way, with high cheekbones and a strong jaw. But his eyes were windows into an abyss that predated the concept of darkness itself.

The members, as one, bowed their heads even lower, pressing their foreheads to the cold stone floor.

That man who was at the front, his voice trembling with equal parts fear and exultation, spoke the words they had all rehearsed countless times:

"We greet the great lord, He Who Walks Between Worlds. May your return herald the end of this age and the beginning of your eternal reign."

The figure regarded them with those impossible eyes, a smile playing at the corners of his mouth that contained no warmth or mercy.